


good girls go bad (and when they're gone, they're gone for good)

by youhaveagodcomplex (orphan_account)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Fisting, Lesbian Sex, but if it was a starbucks roast it'd be sold in a purple bag, error 404: no fluff found, i'm not saying this fic is really fucking dark, some thoschei undertones as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25713412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/youhaveagodcomplex
Summary: “Don’t worry, baby,” says Mels, and it’s notsweetiebut it will do, “Stick with me tonight and that douche will be the last thing on your mind.”The Doctor laughs, cagily replies “Maybe,” as though she hasn’t come here tonight with the express purpose of fucking the brains out of her not-yet wife.//(Mels meets the Thirteenth Doctor at a bar in 2010.)
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Mels Zucker, Thirteenth Doctor/River Song
Comments: 7
Kudos: 58





	good girls go bad (and when they're gone, they're gone for good)

**Author's Note:**

> potential dubcon because Mels doesn't know who the Doctor is. title is a Snow Tha Product lyric. enjoy!

She isn’t sure why she does it. 

Gallifrey is in shambles--  _ again.  _ It’s seared into her mind: the Citadel, standing shattered among an expanse of scorched fields, and the smoke which lingers low in the air is saturated still with the screams of her people. She hears those screams when she closes her eyes. She’s heard them before. When she sleeps, sometimes memories blend, and it’s the distinct cacophony of the Daleks which accompanies those screams. 

It’s fantasy, of course; the Daleks did not do this, though she wishes they had, because she doesn’t (want to)  _ understand  _ how he could do this. 

It’s a betrayal, but above all else, it’s a failure. A failure on her part, of course. Who else’s? Missy was hers to guard, to keep, to save. (To reprogram.) 

Maybe that’s why now she finds herself at a nearly-deserted bar in Leadworth, past midnight, dressed in a haphazard approximation of English 2010 streetwear. 

“One shirley temple, please, with an extra cherry,” she tells the bartender, and inhales as amused brown eyes flicker up to meet hers. 

“You want a shot of vodka in that?” asks the woman. 

The Doctor holds her gaze. “I don’t have anybody to drive me home.” 

“Keep looking at me like that an’ that might change,” she quips, grinning. Uncorks the vodka. 

Leaning forward, the Doctor makes a show of playfully rolling her eyes. “Do you always come on so strong to your clients, er …” 

“Mels,” supplies the woman with a smirk. “And only the pretty ones.” 

Yes, Mels. 

Is it unethical for the Doctor to do this? Probably.

Well, almost definitely. 

Still. There’s a line between unethical and plain wrong, and while she’s certainly treading somewhere in the uncharted waters between the two, she’ll stop herself before she gets to the latter. 

(Maybe.)

There are a few stragglers in the corner of the bar-- regulars, perhaps, a pair of college girls and an old man who looks to be at the bottom of a few pints. And Mels… well, her attention is fixed fully on the Doctor, already. Of course it is. 

She knows how to play this. It’s easy, really.

“Appreciate the thought, but I don’t want to drink tonight,” she tells Mels as the other woman slides her drink across the bar, then takes a sip of it anyway. “That’s… strong. No, really, I shouldn’t. Just been through a breakup, and I don’t wanna end up callin’ him by accident.” 

Mels’ curls are loose tonight, twisted out, and so when she leans across the counter, the Doctor is necessarily reminded of the woman she married. It… hurts, in a peculiar sort of way, and her breath catches. 

So maybe this  _ is  _ wrong, then. (Maybe she’s known it all along.) But she needs Mels tonight, not River. She needs the sociopath, the killer, the brainwashed woman who will overcome her prejudice and hatred in time, at the Doctor’s bidding. 

(Red sands, turned redder, flash for a moment in her mind. It worked for River. Why the hell hadn’t it worked for… ) 

Regardless. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” says Mels, and it’s not  _ sweetie  _ but it will do, “Stick with me tonight and that douche will be the last thing on your mind.” 

The Doctor laughs, cagily replies “Maybe,” as though she hasn’t come here tonight with the express purpose of fucking the brains out of her not-yet wife. 

After that it’s simple. She downs the drink, laughs awkwardly at Mels’ outrageous flirtations, downs another, laughs a little less awkwardly, and by the time she slams a third empty glass onto the counter, she’s let Mels think that she’s seduced her. 

The two college girls have long since left. The old man grumbles when Mels announces that it’s closing time, but shuffles out without much more of a fuss. 

“What’s your favorite song of his?” says the Doctor’s almost-wife when they are alone, dark eyes flashing up at her through a fringe of curls. 

Song? 

“Er… who?” 

“Eminem,” Mels responds as though it’s obvious, glancing pointedly at the Doctor’s chest. 

Eminem… Is this something that a human from 2010 would know? She’s thrown momentarily off guard, scrambling to think of where she’s heard the term before.

“The candy?” she comes up with finally, and when Mels narrows her eyes, the Doctor knows she’s blown her cover. 

“The rapper. You’re wearing his t-shirt.” 

Well. 

She probably should have done a bit more research before putting together this outfit. In all fairness, the  _ Earth, 2010 Female  _ section of the TARDIS wardrobe was looking a bit sparse this afternoon. 

“Right, sorry,” she stammers. “Forgetful, me. Uhm, I like all his songs. Especially the one about… chocolate.” 

Mels frowns, unhooks her apron. “You’re a spook.” 

Shit. 

It’s her fault, anyway-- she’s been far too sloppy. River is exceptionally perceptive, maybe more so than even the Doctor herself, and while the Doctor has a difficult time reconciling the dark-haired woman before her with the one who’d shared her bed on Darillium, the fact remains that they are the same person. She’s just dealing with the slightly more dangerous version now. 

Then Mels is crossing the room and fiddling with the jukebox until it groans. 

It’s piano. Discordant. 

“Come here,” demands Mels. “Dance with me.” 

Shivering, the Doctor obeys. (She obeys, sometimes. River always did; Mels won’t.)

“I don’t know how to dance,” she tells the other woman. Maybe it’s the first truth she’s spoken tonight. 

Mels says, “Haven’t you ever danced at a wedding or something?” and seizes her by the hem of her t-shirt, and  _ oh.  _

Suddenly she doesn’t want this, because River used to grab her (him) the same way, and she can’t think of River right now. That’s not the point of today. It’s not…

“I’m not a wedding person,” she says softly as Mels presses her lips up to the Doctor’s ear. 

“I think you are. What’s your name?” 

The Doctor swallows. “Joanna.” 

She’d come prepared with it, of course. Mels laughs softly. 

“Joanna,” she whispers. “You’re a spook. I’m going to fuck you, and then I’m going to kill you.” 

  
  


/

She hasn’t been with anyone in such a long while. Missy was the last, and before that, River. Lovely, brilliant, beautiful River, who’d moaned and moved against the Doctor beneath the ever-setting suns of Darillium and made him promise never to forget her. 

(He never could.)

So maybe she’ll let herself miss her wife after all. Just now. Just for tonight. It’s difficult to miss someone who’s standing in front of you, but River isn’t, not really. 

  
  
  


(The sands of Darillium were also red.)

/

They end up fucking against the jukebox, Mels pressing her firmly into the speakers, working two fingers inside of her. She’s relentless. Cruel, really, and though the Doctor expected it, she’s dazed nevertheless. 

“I’m going to kill you with one of those shot glasses,” Mels hisses gleefully, nipping at her neck. “You like that, don’t you, baby? I can feel it. God, you’re so wet. You can pick the glass.” 

Melody Pond is nothing if not a woman of her word; still, the Doctor groans “You won’t”-- testing her, perhaps. Or, tempting her. 

With a sneer, Mels curls her fingers sharply and… 

Something stirs inside the Doctor-- arousal, certainly: a singularity, because she’s surprised to find herself savoring the abrasiveness, the sting, the tugging and tearing inside of her-- she sees red, throws her head back and cries out. 

Then Mels is twisting her wrist, and she takes her deeper still. There’s a third finger, and a fourth, pressing up inside of her-- a battering ram, testing the limits of her walls, until the Doctor’s breath hitches on nothing and she’s quivering around her wife. It’s sweet, somehow, the violence and savagery. Mels is broken, yes, sick in the head, and the Doctor is, well, a Doctor, and  _ shit.  _

“Think you can take the whole thing?” Mels whispers, but it’s not really a question, because she’s already teasing her thumb into the palm of her hand in preparation. 

Mels’ eyes gleam brown in the darkness of the bar. If they were in the sun, the Doctor thinks that perhaps they’d be amber. Reddish, almost. 

“You’re, uh, good _ ,”  _ she gasps then, and swallows up Mels’ fist inside of her. “You’re-- _ good,  _ sweetie.” 

(It slips out, that’s all. She doesn’t regret it either.)

The Doctor comes twice like that, one after the other, and when she comes she thinks of Gallifrey. 

/

/

Mels withdraws her hand. The Doctor sinks down against the jukebox, cunt screaming in protest. 

“Do you want me to…” she offers, panting, as she reaches for the waistband of the other woman’s jeans.

Mels bats her away.

“No,” she says. “I don’t let spies touch me. So you’ve had your turn. I hope you picked out a nice, sharp glass.” 

Ah, yes. That bit. 

“I-- well,” she stammers, and it occurs to her that Mels really could kill her now, and it wouldn’t even mess up the timelines. “You-- you won’t do it.” 

“Won’t I?” 

“No,” and an insane idea strikes her at random, so she says, “I’ll trade you for my life. I have… information for you. About the Doctor.” 

Something unidentifiable flickers across Mels’ face then. The Doctor watches as her fingers curl into fists-- relax, contract, relax-- as though she’s barely able to restrain herself from reaching out, seizing blonde tresses and  _ snapping.  _

“Tell me,” she spits finally, and the Doctor knows she’s about to cross that line. 

(She’s seen it, now. The transformation. Mels to River, River to Mels. No more excuses for  _ him. _ )

She swallows. 

“I work with the Doctor,” she whispers, hearts stuttering, knowing that this is wrong and not caring. “At MI-6. He’s, uh, he’s disguised himself as a human now. Goes by O. He should be easy to find, he does analytics…” 

There. It’s done.

It’s done, it’s done. 

Mels appraises her, chewing her lip slowly, before nodding. Silently, she gestures to the door of the bar. 

The Doctor bolts. 

Bolts, and runs, legs aching, stinging all through her abdomen, and doesn’t stop until she reaches the TARDIS console. 

(She’d loved River. She really had-- does. Maybe she'd loved Missy too. And yet…)

  
  
  


She inputs the coordinates of Gallifrey. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ik this fic is rly rushed but i just wanted to write some 13/mels smut ok 😩 also pls leave a comment, they make me smile


End file.
